


The Call to Arms

by Cadid423



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (But it definitely bends the rules a bit), (Which means that it doesn't go directly against canon), Dumbledore's Army, Gen, Minor Canonical Character(s), Tentatively Canonical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cadid423/pseuds/Cadid423
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the weeks following the end of the war, everyone involved would agree unanimously that it had been all Terry Boot's idea." Various DA members as they recieve the signal to fight in the Battle of Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Justin Finch-Fletchly

Toss, catch, flip.

Toss, catch, flip.

Toss, catch, flip.

It's a bad habit – a nervous tick that Justin's acquired this past year, but despite his many attempts, he just can't seem to stop.

(The repetitive motion is comforting in its simplicity, along with having the added benefit of giving Justin something to do with his hands besides watch them shake.)

He snatches his fake DA coin out of the air just as it begins its descent back to earth and brings it close to his face, squinting at the glinting golden embossment that rims the edge for the third time this morning.

15981041-645056734

The first part of the coded serial is easy to decipher:

15981041, or, when spaced properly, 1/5/98; 10:41. These numbers should reflect the date and time the message was sent out, so for a few long moments Justin was perplexed as to why his coin seemed to be jet-lagged by several hours, before he belatedly realized that the coins were probably set for British Summer Time.

The second part is much more confusing.

645056734

Like the first half of the fake serial, these numbers should also represent a date and time: specifically, the date and time of the next DA meeting. They don't in this instance for obvious reasons, and Justin didn't expect them to, but he is surprised that the stream of numbers can't even be considered a date.

Frowning, he mentally spaces them the same way he did the first set.

64/5/05; 67:34? 64-50-56-73-4?

Justin stares at the tiny numerals for several more minutes, but he no better understands their meaning now than he did the first time around or the time after that. Frustrated, he clenches the offending object tightly in his fist and begins pacing up and down the length of the small balcony.

It occurs to Justin at this point that he may be obsessing over nothing. After all, if he hadn't been Australia and therefore too far away to be of any assistance to anyone at Hogwarts, he probably wouldn't have even noticed the finer details of the new serial – reacting only the coin's change in the whole. Justin wouldn't need to know what the serial meant, (if it does indeed mean something) because the DA members at Hogwarts would have told him in person when he arrived.

But this reasoning doesn't really matter though, because Justin is in Australia and he is too far away from Hogwarts to be anything other than utterly useless to the friends and classmates in Scotland that are probably in dire need of assistance. He did notice the finer details of the new serial, and he desperately needs it to mean something, because despite the reasonable front he put on in front of his parents for the few seconds it took him to hastily flee the kitchen earlier this morning, it's pretty much impossible to hide pure, unadulterated panic from yourself.

So Justin dismisses the possibility of the serial meaning nothing and settles back in his chair, taking a deep breath and once more refocusing his mind as best he can.

(Justin is no great fan of puzzles or riddles. He doesn't come from a family of Aurors and he's never had any sort of talent for uncovering the secret meanings behind seemingly straightforward occurrences. But he knows of three extraordinary people who do, so he'll keep trying, for their sake.)

He rolls the source of his ire between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the coin without really seeing it as he continues to think. Justin's so lost in thought that it takes him a while to truly process the information his eyes are sending him, but when it finally connects it's like a slap in the face.

'No,' Justin thinks, an odd mix of horrified, relieved, and confused. 'It couldn't have been that simple.'

645056734

64505; 6734

It's an old Muggle trick, and somewhere in the back of his mind Justin wonders which of the half-blooded Ravenclaw members of the DA came up with the clever idea. And technically speaking, both of the p's are backwards, but any child with the ability to read and use a calculator would have been able to figure it out. Justin himself can vaguely remember learning to spell out similar simple messages the year before he started Hogwarts.

(hq-hELq; S0S)

And perhaps this conformation of his worst fears should make Justin even more worried but if anything it just fuels his growing need to be doing something, anything, other than remaining hidden away.

He stands abruptly, glancing at his watch with newfound purpose as he takes two steps back towards the sitting room, dead set on catching the next aeroplane into London. He carefully tucks the coin back into his pocket before glancing at his watch again, unable to help himself.

It's 9:55 in Sydney, Australia.

(Hidden somewhere in the mountains of Scotland, it's five minutes to midnight.)

(Toss, catch, flip.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea if the actual DA coins showed the date the coin was changed as well as the new meeting time, but I hope that it wasn't too much of a stretch. :P


	2. Marietta Edgecomb

Fact or Truth?

This is the question that Marietta Edgecombe contemplates as she examines the various items strewn across the sitting room carpet.

All facts are truths of course, but did it work the same in reverse? Are all truths facts? Most people would think so, but Marietta isn't so sure. Facts are simple and straightforward. They're resilient, unbiased, and unchanging, capable of being memorized and recalled whenever needed. Facts are easy.

The truth is much trickier to define. Easily warped by time and memory, the truth is generally much less structured than fact. The idea of 'truthfulness' could mean something different to every person depending on his or her morals and opinions, and there's no way to test it or measure it or experiment on it. Like a remembrall, the truth is foggy and frustrating – only apparent after the mystery has been solved. It's much easier then, to simply disregard the truth until absolutely necessary and focus only on facts instead.

'However, the truth,' Marietta concedes reluctantly as her green eyes skim across the melted remains of her favorite lipstick, 'is much harder to ignore once it's burned a galleon-sized hole through your coin purse and liquefied half of your makeup.'

The nineteen year-old had stayed up late reading, too deeply engrossed in the latest edition of 'Transfiguration Today' to even consider going to bed. Her internal clock unfortunately, wasn't nearly as willing to forgo its precious sleep, so up until five or ten minutes ago Marietta was half asleep, the newsletter having long since fallen from her now-slackened grip.

Then, suddenly, many things happen at once, and it's only by some random fluke that Marietta is even involved at all.

'Hmmm,' Marietta notices sleepily, an acrid smell forcing its way into her half-conscious mind. 'Something is smoking.'

This thought bounces around her subconscious for a few moments before it really registers, but when it does, it send her whole being into a fit of panic.

'Fire!' The strawberry blonde fumbles clumsily for her wand, all traces of drowsiness gone. She glances around wildly, all sorts of horrid scenarios racing through her mind as she searches for the ignition point. It doesn't take long to locate the source of the smoking thankfully, so with a shrill cry of 'Aguamenti!' Marietta douses her smoldering handbag in three quarts of water.

She creeps toward the bag with the sort of wary caution one might use when approaching a particularly aggressive hippogriff. Though it may be made of cheap knock-off dragon hide, most people expect that, as a general rule, their accessories have been charmed against little things like spontaneous self-combustion, and Marietta is no exception.

Her fingers hover over the bag's metal fastening, her wand held firmly, suspiciously in the other hand.

(It's not the purse itself that burning, but something inside of it.)

She takes in a steadying breath before she wrenches the clasp apart, allowing the purse to fall to the floor with a significant thump. The entire process is rather anticlimactic: nothing jumps out at her or bursts into flame, and a small part of Marietta isn't sure if this is a good thing or bad.

Mentally chiding herself for her silliness, Marietta drops to her knees, grabbing the now thoroughly abused coin purse by its bottom and flipping it upside down, roughly shaking out the contents.

'Something in here was giving off enough heat to create smoke,' the nineteen year-old rationalizes, and there's an abundance of evidence to prove this. Lipsticks, quills, candy wrappers… all are melted or scorched from being exposed to an intense heat. The frustrating thing is that Marietta has absolutely no idea what could have caused such damage. 'Most of this stuff has been in here for ages and none of it has ever caught fire before!' 

Confused and irritated Marietta turns the bag inside out, trying to insure that she didn't miss anything. It's only then that she notices the hole.

It's a perfectly round, coin-shaped mark that's burned all the way through the purse's inner lining to it's caramel colored outer shell, blackening the surrounding fabric in the process. The longer she stares at it the more uneasy Marietta feels, a strange sense of déjà vu flooding through her. As if to confirm her impossible suspicions, the Floo in the next room chimes loudly, signaling an impending call.

Marietta's eyes are drawn almost unwillingly to the glittering bits of change that sparsely pepper the large pile in front of her before moving to stare into the large mirror on the far side of the room. Despite the darkness, Marietta can easily make out her own reflection; her skin a ghostly white, her green eyes wide and terrified. It's only because she's had to apply makeup to them for the past two years that Marietta can even see the faint scars that mar her pale complexion, but in her mind's eye she can perfectly recall the horrible curse that originally caused them.

She turns back to the coins, still in disbelieving denial. How could she possibly still have that retched thing? Surely by now she would have spent it or lost it! All of the galleons in the pile look exactly the same, but Marietta has a sneaking suspicion as to which one could be…

The fireplace chimes again insistently somewhere in the background, but still Marietta doesn't move, and eventually, the noise sputters into silence as the other caller finally gives up.

("If the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy…")

The strawberry blonde reaches out with a trembling hand, plucking from the pile a single golden coin. The fake galleon burns red-hot against her skin for a brief moment, but it cools rapidly as she tightens her fist around it, acknowledging it one last time for what it truly is.

The false coin slips easily through her shaking fingers as she pulls herself into a standing position, but the Ravenclaw makes no attempt to catch it, allowing it to roll away into the darkness. She stumbles into bed a few minutes later, but it will be hours before Marietta finally falls asleep.

(Marietta Edgecombe has always believed that all conflict boils down to fact vs. truth.)

(It was foolish of her to believe that real life could have ever been that simple.)


	3. Katie Bell

Contrary to most people, if she stirs at some point during the middle of the night, Katie Bell never wakes up groggy, sleepy, or disoriented. She never ponders the cause of her wakening or wonders the hour, because she's much too used to her nightly rousing to be anything other than neutrally expectant. So when Katie Bell wakes prematurely for the umpteenth time this year, she pulls back the covers and swings her feet over to meet the carpet robotically – the sudden chill of night air not deterring her in the least.

The door to her bedroom opens noiselessly - its originally creaky hinges having long since been charmed to be silent, so it's with the sort of practice and skill that comes from lots of repetition that Katie manages to sneak out of her own bedroom.

Away from the faint light of the moon through her window, the entire flat is shrouded in darkness. The blonde witch can't see past the end of her nose, but thankfully, she doesn't need to – sidestepping the section of creaky flooring to the right of the bathroom and continuing quickly around the corner with ease.

(Katie's meticulous to the point of being unreasonable about keeping the hallway clear for this exact purpose: to be easily navigable in total darkness.)

She only fumbles for a light switch once she's reached her destination and the bleach-bright florescent lighting that floods the kitchen blinds the Gryffindor for a brief moment. She grabs a clean plate from the dish drainer as she passes, hop skipping across the tile floor towards the large cabinets on the far side of the room. Katie's careful to be quiet as she examines the leftovers from this evening lest her rifling through the pantry rouse her roommate in the room closest. The twenty year old isn't entirely sure whether or not Oliver's noticed her strange eating habits (and even if he has the Scotsman wouldn't comment on them anyway), but Katie would rather not push her luck.

Katie hasn't always been like this: a late-night snacker, that is, and the change is entirely her own fault. She could and should eat more at dinner, but eating requires hands and silver ware and fine motor skills… all of which are much too tedious and perhaps a little embarrassing to try to deal with or fake for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

(It's a good thing that Katie never planned on playing Quidditch professionally as the partial paralysis in her left hand would have surely crushed those budding dreams.)

As she pushes those depressing thoughts away, Katie abruptly remembers the bowl of pasta that lurks hidden in the back corner of the top shelf, and with surprising determination, she extends her petite body upwards as far as physically possible, suddenly craving spaghetti. Unsurprisingly, Katie is nowhere near tall enough to reach the elusive upper shelf that's situated perfectly at Oliver's eyelevel. Come to think of it, it was Oliver who stasis charmed the leftovers last night.

The blonde witch frowns as she considers her possible options.

(Perhaps it comes from being a Muggle-raised half-blood or maybe it's a lack of sleep finally taking its toll, but not once does Katie consider using magic. And perhaps that in itself describes this whole situation perfectly.)

Katie secures her feet along the bottom of the cabinet and her hands onto one of the shelf ledges and, using the upper body strength Chasers are known for, begins climbing up the front of the pantry. The furniture wobbles ominously under the extra forty-five kilos of weight hanging off its front but fortunately, it holds her. It's an easy task despite her injury and she only pauses for a brief moment to reaffirm her grip on the framing before she begins feeling around the back of the shelf for the coveted food.

Victory! Katie shimmys her way back to the floor, a large bowl held tightly in the crook of her elbow. The red-hot heat that sears its way through the thin fabric of her pajamas is more startling than painful but Katie reacts badly, dropping the hard-earned food with an echoing crash.

Shards of porcelain fly in every direction; bright red marinara sauce speckles all of the surrounding surfaces including Katie herself, but the petite witch is unfazed, the overwhelming panic rushing through her veins slowing and numbing her ability to react. Her arms feel like dead weights as she reaches into her pocket and function about as well, for just as she withdraws her hand her grip slips for the second time tonight, a shiny golden coin tumbling to the floor.

The blonde drops to her knees as she chases after it and in this moment, there is nothing on Earth as unequivocally irritating to Katie Bell as pasta with red sauce. Broken pieces of china cut into her knees, into her elbows, into her palms but Katie ignores the pain easily, reaching out once more for the fake galleon. Her fingers, however, are suddenly quite unwilling to listen to her brain's directions and chose now, the worst possible moment, to refuse to work properly.

Tears of frustration leak out of her eyes as Katie attempts many times over to retrieve her DA coin from the mound of spaghetti it's landed in. Out of nowhere, a large hand enters her line of vision, deftly plucking the coin from its prison and placing it gently but firmly into her palm, manually curling her fingers around it to prevent her from dropping it again.

Katie glances up through watery eyes, surprised but not really at the sight of Oliver Wood kneeling in front her, looking confused and concerned. Her flatmate deserves an explanation, this Katie knows, but there simply isn't any time.

The students at Hogwarts are calling for help.

(If she survives the night, maybe Katie will muster the courage to ask for some herself.)


	4. Dennis & Colin Creevy

It is a truth universally acknowledged that busy crowds, neutral clothing, and the cover of darkness make blending in a great deal easier than it would be otherwise but given the circumstances, Dennis Creevy figures that two out of three is close enough.

The brothers move quickly around and past the few night owls that still populate the London streets despite the late hour, the entrance to the Underground getting further away with every step. Dennis has absolutely no idea where they're going but he can't quite bring himself to worry about it just yet, because if there's one good thing that's been forged through this horrible experience is the unshakable faith the younger Creevy has in his elder brother's ability to scrounge up a plan on short notice.

Colin Creevy has really stepped up to the plate this year. And that's not to say that Colin wasn't an excellent brother before the war, he's just never really felt like an older brother. The Creevy's are very much a two-person act – Dennis has never been the annoying kid sibling that follows his big brother around and Colin has never treated him as such. In all honesty, their relationship is more reminiscent of best friends or twins than it is of members of the same family born two years apart, and it always has been... at least until recently.

If Dennis was asked to pinpoint the exact moment when the shift occurred, he wouldn't hesitate for a second. Even now he still has absolutely no idea how she figured out where they lived but Dennis accepted a long time ago that Hermione Granger simply knows everything, and that it's easier for everyone involved to just allow this state of affairs to continue unquestioned. Colin looked apprehensive but unsurprised to see her, following the older girl and a dark-haired Hufflepuff Dennis recognized from the DA out the door without so much as a wave goodbye, returning hours later just as close-lipped as he left.

"Dennis," Colin sighs. "Just leave it alone, okay? It's nothing you need to worry about."

"But Colin!" Dennis insists. "You've never left me out of th-"

"I said drop it," Colin repeats more firmly. "I've got everything under control."

It's the first and only time that Dennis can recall Colin ever purposefully excluding him from something, so it should come as no great surprise that he didn't respond very well to the sudden reverse. However, he was quite willing to forgive and forget their second week in the city when Colin was able to replenish their food supplies using a debit card in his name attached to a bank account that Dennis knows he didn't have before.

(Colin's already called dibs on Harry, but Dennis privately thinks that having Hermione Granger as an idol is a pretty wicked second choice.)

Dennis is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice that they've reached their destination until Colin's firm grip around his shoulders partially strangles him. The younger boy has just enough time blanch with realization before his brother steers him into the Leaky Cauldron.

The famous pub is just as barren as the Muggle street outside but Dennis gets the feeling that unlike Charing Cross Road, the Leaky Cauldron will stay empty when morning comes. Colin strides confidently towards where Tom mans the bar (somehow ignoring the outright staring of the other patrons) and strikes up a whispered conversation. Dennis shifts anxiously by the door, checking his watch despite the fact that the batteries died a few weeks ago just to seem busy, the other hand stuffed into the pocket of his jacket to hide the shiny coin clenched tightly in his fist.

He sneaks a sideways glance at his brother. Colin perches casually on a bar stool, his legs crossed at the ankles and one elbow resting against the countertop as he leans forward to listen to whatever Tom has to say. His posture simply screams relaxed and inconspicuous to everyone but Dennis, because he can't remember ever seeing his older brother sitting so still.

As if sensing Dennis's gaze Colin turns, gesturing for him to come over with a slight jerk of his head. Relieved, the younger teen hurries over, just catching the last part of Tom's sentence as he approaches.

"…for the Floo."

Colin nods his thanks. "If you can think of anyone else who wants to help defend the castle, send them to the Three Broomsticks as we can use all the help we can-"

"The Hogs Head."

Colin looks at him with confusion and surprise and it occurs to Dennis that this is the first thing he's said since they received the signal around thirty minutes ago.

"Send them to the Hogs Head. It's safer."

Colin's questioning look remains so Dennis elaborates. "Our first meeting was there," he reminds the sixteen year-old patiently. "Probably for good reason, don't you think?"

His older brother smiles, a real, genuine smile, and turns back to the bartender. "Scratch the Three Broomsticks," he says authoritatively. "Send them to the Hog's Head."

As Tom leaves to grab the Floo Powder Dennis can feel his stomach knotting up with nerves. The sudden silence created by the lull in conversation feels ominous and perhaps Colin feels it too for he opens his mouth to say something but Dennis cuts him off again before he can start.

"Our eyes are the same color." This sentence makes practically no sense because in the same way that fear makes his brother ridiculously still, it also makes Dennis do his best impression of a mute. He can feel his body rebelling against the use of his vocal chords but he forces himself to try speaking anyway, because the magnitude of the situation has only just now sunk in and he's afraid that if he doesn't say something now he'll never get the chance to say it later.

Even if everything he says comes out as gibberish.

"The exact same shade of brown," he continues, a tad bit hysterically, "Have you ever noticed? I've never known anyone with eyes our color except us."

"Only us," Colin agrees and Dennis is sure that they both know that they're not really talking about eye color, and that calms him slightly. "But it's not just eye color you know. If you weren't two years younger I would swear that you're my clone."

Dennis's relieved smile is his answer and there's silence for a brief moment before, "Colin?"

"Yeah Dennis?"

"Thanks for-"His voice falters but he forces himself to continue. "Thanks for having the same eye color as me."

(It's a truth universally acknowledged that twins are two people that share a set of parents, a birthday, and in most cases, appearance, but given the strength of his and Colin's relationship, Dennis Creevy figures that two out of three is close enough.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written partially to fill a challenge by HedwigBlack over on FanFiction.net to start the chapter with "It is a truth universally acknowleged..."


	5. Fred & George Weasley

If there's one specific trait that Fred Weasley loathes above all others, its complacency.

He's never seen the point doing something the exact same way over and over again (where's the fun in that?), which is probably why he has so much trouble with schedules and recipes. Mum in particular likes to blame his and George's rambunctious nature on the massive amounts of spicy curry she claims to have craved while pregnant with them, but Fred is of the opinion that creating trouble, havoc, and general mayhem is a talent that can be nurtured and honed rather than an ability that one must be born with. After all, any prankster worth their Floo Powder knows that 'predictable' and 'clever' can never coexist peacefully within any one situation, and Fred likes to think that such reasonable logic is applicable to things outside of mischief-making, which is why he finds himself growing increasingly irritated with his family with each passing moment.

Because to be completely frank, Fred Weasley is fed up with all the watch-from-the-sidelines rubbish he's been an unwilling participant of these past few weeks, and has been resisting the urge to slap his family upside their collective heads for committing the horrendous felony of chickening out. And admittedly, this is an uncommon opinion to have during a wartime as most people are much more concerned with being terrified and the like, but Fred feels he's entitled to his ire.

His entire family is made up of Gryffindors, but you would never be able to tell based on their current behavior. Of the nine members of the Weasley clan, two-thirds of them live hidden beneath a fidelius charm: the first attempting, perhaps foolishly, to relish in the joys of married life while confined to no more than 3000 square feet of land. The other five live under equal restrictions but are decidedly worse off in the end, as they must cohabit with a crotchety old great-aunt instead of a beautiful, blonde, quarter-veela. Of the final third, one is in a different country, one has abandoned the family completely, and the last is providing more to the war effort than the rest of them combined. The only one with any sort excuse is Ginny as she's only a sixth-year, but she's probably just as eager to be out fighting as he and George are, if not more so.

Well… maybe that's not a fair assessment. That one year of being forced to work almost entirely underground to avoid scorn from the Ministry has really come back to bite them, and most days it's a miracle that no one else has turned up 'missing'. Although it's a bitter pill to swallow, Fred knows that the Order simply doesn't have the resources to do much more than what they already are, which is putting up the best defense they can for as long as magically possible, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

(He's a Gryffindor for Merlin's sake! It's not in his nature to sit around idly!)

Fred shakes his head to clear his thoughts and suddenly becomes aware of the shrill voice cutting through the otherwise complete silence like a hot knife in butter.

"-I told Molly that those hooligans would be nothing but trouble! Always with the pranks, the backtalk, and the disrespect; who knows where they'll end up ten years from now? Prison, no doubt-"

The ginger rolls his eyes. Muriel. Fred has no idea how long she's been at it this time, but judging by the ticked off expression on George's face, much too long.

As a co-contributor to one of the most vibrant disciplinary records Hogwarts has ever seen, Fred has been on the receiving end of as many lectures as there are stars in the sky. However, none of them have ever been so grating as the ones delivered by Great-Aunt Muriel.

Fred was well aware of just how ill-tempered and rude the last Prewett female was, his oldest brother's wedding being just the most recent example, but putting up with her for a few hours is nothing compared to hell that is living with her. The elderly woman has made a habit of going into long tangents about how 'unappreciated and put upon she is' whenever she feels even the tiniest bit slighted or ignored and won't stop until someone finally breaks down and asks her what's wrong, no matter how little effort they put into pretending to care. It should be no surprise that neither twin is overly fond of spending any more time than is absolutely necessary with the old hag, (In all honesty, it's only the knowledge that she's providing them with a place to live and a promise to Mum that keeps her from being hexed into permanent silence) but seeing as though they're the only people awake…

He looks over at George, only to find his twin already staring at him. Fred raises his right arm, his hand clenched in a fist. George nods sharply and mirrors him.

They move at the same time, both pounding their fists into the palms of their opposite hands once, twice, three times before checking the outcome. George's hand remains in the same clenched shape but Fred's hand has flattened out, his fingers extended and his palm facing downwards.

Fred smiles triumphantly. 'Thank Merlin to Hermione for teaching us rock-paper-scissors a few summers ago,' he thinks.

George glares at him but doesn't challenge his victory, trudging off to sooth the savage beast.

"There you are Fredrick! I see one of you hooligans has finally seen the error in your ways!"

George pipes in here as he always does, correcting Muriel with more politeness than Fred thought he was capable of mustering at such a late hour.

"I'm George, Aunt Muriel," he sighs dutifully, but the other woman continues to talk as if she didn't hear him, something that makes Fred more than a bit angry on his twin's behalf. George wouldn't have minded before, but now that they are so easy to tell apart, (and really, how much more distinguishable can a pair of identical twins get than missing an ear and not missing an ear?) Fred knows that the constant mix up really rubs George the wrong way.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," George is insisting as Fred tunes back in.

"Fredrick Gideon Weasley! (Fred can't help but wince here at the use of his full name despite the fact that he's not the one being addressed.) Don't you play confounded with me young man! You left one of your silly fake galleons lying about and it's left the most horrific scorch mark on my good oak table! That table was a wedding gift, so don't think for a moment that you and George are getting off scot free with ruining it!" Muriel screeches.

Fred's brow furrows at this. 'What?'

"But we don't make fake galleons!" George tells her, echoing Fred's confusion. "That sort of thing is illegal, and even if it isn't, there isn't any point in messing with the goblins…"

He trails off, and for a brief moment there's complete silence.

"Fred," George says, and his brother's tone is so serious that Fred knows what must've happened before George can say it. "Go wake everyone. Lightning has struck."

(They're Gryffindors, for Merlin's sake!)

(It's time to start acting like it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to clarify that the 'Lightning has Struck' thing is from the last movie, but I decided to use it because it could just as easily been canon. :)


	6. Dean Thomas & Luna Lovegood

In an ideal situation, Luna Lovegood is someone Dean Thomas would've preferred to acclimate himself to slowly. Unfortunately, ideal situations are rather hard to come by in the middle of a wartime, so Dean supposes that he'll just have to man up and deal with it.

Plus, it's not as if Luna's a complete stranger or something. They were in the DA together and Dean did spend the better part of last year dating her best friend, so it's not as if he's unfamiliar with Luna's… unique outlook on life. However, being aware of someone and having to live in close quarters with them are two radically different things.

Dean feels guilty for thinking it, even just privately to himself, but it's easy to see how the blonde Ravenclaw earned the cruel but accurate nickname of 'Looney Lovegood'. Most of their conversations are largely one-sided: Luna telling entertaining, if far-fetched, tales of her father's attempts at finding and photographing a Crumple-Horned Snorkack and Dean listening with one ear as he goes about his day.

And although it's definitely a bit befuddling (and at times exasperating), to listen to all of Luna's beliefs and ideas, Dean doesn't really mind.

(It's hard to begrudge someone for imagining up such fantastical things when real life is so lousy in comparison.)

When she's not talking about Snorkacks or Nargles however, Luna catches him up on what's been happening at Hogwarts while he's been on the run. Understandably, most of her information is a few months out of date, but Dean is grateful for any scrap of insider knowledge she has about how his friends and classmates have been doing in his absence.

To be honest, Dean is grateful for Luna's presence period.

The black Muggleborn has never been one to be easily discouraged, but lately even he's hard pressed to find any sort of bright side of this situation.

But not Luna.

Despite her quirkiness (or perhaps because of it), the sixth-year is remarkably levelheaded, and her unflappable optimism is almost embarrassingly reassuring. Quicker than he thought possible, Dean grows quite fond of her: dottiness and all.

Dean realizes then that he's been spacing out, tuning back into reality just in time to catch the tail end of Luna's sentence.

"…wash ashore the Humdingers flee, leaving the abandoned nest behind for innocent Muggles to find and feast upon."

Dean looks up from the chessboard he's been staring at blankly for the last five minutes with a frown. He hasn't been paying any attention to what Luna's been saying, but Dean knows her well enough by now to be able to make an educated guess.

"Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?" he asks finally, half-disbelieving and half-intrigued. "Again?"

"Blibbering Humdingers," the wispy blonde witch sitting across from him corrects absentmindedly, completely ignoring, or perhaps not noticing, his question. "Coconut is the Muggle term; we've discussed this."

"You're right: we have discussed this, and I'm pretty sure we agreed that coconut is the only term, Luna," Dean responds, moving his rook. "Don't you remember? A coconut is a type of fruit that grows in the tropics, not a magical creature whose shell, when eaten, is one of the leading causes of arthritis in children under the age of twelve."

Luna squints up at him in that funny way she does sometimes – the one that makes the corners of her mouth pull down ever so slightly – and Dean honestly can't tell if she trying to recall the conversation or if she's just really nearsighted.

After a few moments of this peculiar stare, her expression clears.

"Well, I was convinced at first," she informs him seriously. "Then I discovered a new colony of Wrackspurts up in the attic – they must've been making my brain fuzzy. After I got rid of the infestation, I realized how ridiculous your 'coconut' theory was."

"Luna."

"And I'm sure that even more managed to float into your head as you rarely engage in the proper Wrackspurt-repelling technique."

"Luna."

"It is odd that you're still being affected though," she says, looking at him thoughtfully. "I would've thought that you'd be cured by now. Perhaps I missed a few."

"Luna…" Dean groans. "I don't have a Wrackspurt infestation."

She nods sagely. "That's exactly the sort of thing a Wrackspurt victim would say."

"No, really-"

"It was the Wrackspurts, Dean. After all, if 'coconuts'," she says the word with heavy emphasis, her silvery-blue eyes as large as saucers, "Only grow in the tropics, then how do you explain the numerous Humdinger sightings that are owled in each year by dedicated Quibbler readers across the UK?"

Dean stares at her. Luna's argument makes a lot of sense… if one disregards the economic powerhouse that is the Muggle Transportation System. For one insane moment, he seriously considers attempting to explain the complicated process of importing and exporting goods. However, he soon decides that some arguments are just not worth starting and quickly changes the subject.

"Sure, fine. Let's, uh, get back to the game, okay?"

"Okay," Luna says agreeably, as if she hadn't just been involved in a mostly one-sided argument debating the existence of Blibbering Humdingers and a Wrackspurt infestation: an ability Dean can't help but admire slightly. "Whose turn is it?"

The Muggleborn ponders this for a moment, "Yours, I think."

She glances at the board for only a split-second before making her move.

"Knight to E6. Checkmate," she says in her usual dreamy tone.

He blinks twice, then sighs resignedly, knocking over his king with the back of his hand. "Okay, I think I'm going to turn in for the night," he says. "It's getting late and losing eight times in a row is about the maximum my ego can take in one sitting."

"Alright then," Luna answers. "Goodnight Dean, or, as the Gulping Plimpies would say…"

Luna makes a strange gargling noise in the back of her throat but cuts of quickly with a strangled yelp, and it takes Dean a moment to realize that it was a noise of pain.

"Luna!" he says alarmed. "Are you alrig-"

He inhales sharply, suddenly feeling the painful heat of something burning in his pocket. Instinctively, he reaches into his jeans pocket for the only possession he managed to hide from the snatchers: a shiny golden coin.

Worried, he turns to Luna for guidance, only to find her examining an identical gold coin, a dazed smile painting her features.

"Luna," he murmurs, voice hushed with confusion. "What- what does this mean?"

She traces the edge of her coin with a dainty finger, her smile widening even further. "It's a message from Neville," she explains. "Harry's at Hogwarts. It's time to fight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was easily the HARDEST chapter in this collection, but I'm happy with how it turned out. The 'Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?" line is from a long-since-passed week of 'Hedwig Black's Weekly Challenge' on the HPFC, and although I knew even then that I wanted to use that line in this chapter, I also knew that it would never get written in time.


	7. Terry Boot

In the weeks following the end of the war, everyone involved would agree unanimously that it had been all Terry Boot's idea.

They call his actions 'heroically strategic in the face of impending disaster' - a description that never fails to make the Ravenclaw a bit uncomfortable when he hears it, because he's still not entirely sure if he deserves to be held in such high regard.

Did he do the right thing? Did he make the best choice? Terry's spent many a sleepless night pondering these questions, and most nights he can't come up with a conclusive answer, perhaps because there isn't one: complicated questions don't have simple answers.

Sometimes, when he's just thinking about it in terms of numbers and statistics, he knows that they would've been hopelessly outnumbered without his message rallying so many people into fighting, that even more students, mere children most of them, would've been slaughtered without the backup he inadvertently provided. Then he remembers the fallen, the people that were lured into a battle that ultimately led to their demise at his signal, people that might be alive today if not for Terry, and he wonders how he'll ever manage to live with himself with so much guilt weighing down on him.

And not once has anyone questioned his judgment on the matter, but Terry still feels the need to justify his actions to someone, even if the only person asking for such justification is himself, because it was his idea. Because even though Neville Longbottom's the one who physically sent the message, Terry's the one who cast the spell. Terry's the one who altered the Protean charm on the DA coins, enchanting them with an alarm system that was set to activate whenever the serial of any one coin changed to a specific number, creating the chain reaction that the public is already starting to refer to as 'The Call to Arms'.

'Hey Neville,' Terry asks suddenly, breaking the silence in the Room of Requirement. He and the Gryffindor boy are the only two still awake, and now seems just as good a time as any to ask a question he's been worrying about for a while now. 'What's the plan for when Harry finally shows up? Do we even have one?'

'Well, I promised Ginny and Luna that I would send them a message via the coins, but other than that, I don't really have one. I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'

'Oh.'

'I dunno mate, what else can we do?' Neville says with a shrug. 'When Harry finally risks showing his face around here, it'll be the beginning of the end, you can count on that. We just have to trust that he'll have a plan.'

There's silence for a few minutes as Terry thinks this over. Neville's right of course. If Harry does come back to Hogwarts, it would have to be for a damn good reason. He pictures a gigantic army swooping down on the ancient castle in pursuit of the-boy-who-lived, an army so large and so far reaching….

Terry shivers. The few DA members that hadn't gone on the run or graduated would never be able to match them alone.

Then he has an idea.

'What's the message you, Ginny, and Luna decided on for when Harry shows up?' Terry asks. 

'645056734,' Neville reels off from memory.

The translation comes easily to Terry after a whole year's worth of practice, but even still, he's confused.

'F-D-E, space, E-F-G-C-D," he says with a frown. 'What sort of gibberish is that?' 

Neville shrugs again. 'It's something that Luna came up with,' he says as if that should explain everything, and in a way, it does. 'She said it was some sort of super-secret code or something, just in case.'

'Let me see your coin.'

Neville complies, throwing both the coin and a questioning glance in the Ravenclaw's direction.

He taps it with his wand, muttering a spell under his breath. The coin glows red for a moment but is otherwise unchanged. He tosses it back to the pureblood who catches it deftly.

'What did you do to it?' he asks curiously.

'Just in case,' Terry echoes.

So in the end, it doesn't really matter whether or not Terry's choice was the right one or the best one, because it's a choice that's already been made, and nothing he can do will change it.

(They say that hindsight is 20/20, but Terry's starting to wonder if he's the exception to this rule, because no matter how much he replays his memories, he can't think of a single thing he could've done to make the outcome any better than it already is.)

(When he's feeling his most optimistic, he wonders if that's because there wasn't.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a fair bit shorter than the other chapters because it has a different sort of feeling to it than any of the others. Thank you to anyone and everyone who read, reviewed, followed, or favorited this story: it means the world to me! - Cadid423


End file.
